As always, a huge thank-you to my kind, thoughtful reviewers. Your feedback means so much!

April 25, 1829
Feast Day of St. Mark the Evangelist

I just read over my last entry, and there was something I forgot to mention. I do know one thing about Papa's life before he found me in the woods — only one thing, and it's that someone, somewhere, once hurt him very badly. I know this because I've seen his arms.

Papa has always worn long sleeves. I can still remember when I first saw his bare arms. It was during our earliest days in Paris, and we'd just settled into the boarding house where we used to live. Papa was giving me a bath in the washtub. (An aside: I suppose I should've been old enough to bathe myself, but I didn't really know how. I'd almost never been allowed to bathe at the inn. Madame complained of my smell sometimes, but I knew better than to ask her if I could take a bath. She would've been furious at me just for asking and certainly never would've wasted any hot water on me. Besides, I liked letting Papa bathe me. I'd never really felt hot water before. I'd certainly never felt hands on me that didn't hurt before. I don't have the words for how safe it was, to finally have someone taking care of me.)

Perhaps it was the first time he ever gave me a bath, and when he rolled up his sleeves, I gripped the sides of the tub with both hands and gasped aloud.

His arms were covered in scars — not just a few, but many of them. They criss-crossed his skin like lines on a map. I didn't like looking at them, but I couldn't tear my eyes away. The worst were the ones on his wrists, which were so thick and went round his wrists completely, like shackles he could never remove.

I wanted to ask what had happened, who had done such a thing to him, but I was too afraid of what the answers might be. (I know now, of course, that he wouldn't have told me anyway.) Could it have been that angry, shouting man who'd chased us through the streets? What would he do if he found us?

I put my hand on Papa's poor scarred arm, swallowed hard, and asked timidly, "Do they still hurt?"

Then, in my mind's eye, I pictured Papa with his arms all slashed and bleeding, and I must've started crying because the next thing I knew, Papa had lifted me from the tub, wrapped me up in a towel, and was holding me in his arms. I sobbed against his chest, and he stroked my hair and said softly, "No, Cosette, they don't hurt anymore. It's all right now."

But the sight of his arms triggered a fear in me. For some time after that, I had such horrible nightmares — in which a group of huge, faceless men came for Papa and dragged him away, then sent me back to that inn, to be slapped and screamed at every day — that Papa let me sleep in his bed with him. I woke up crying almost every night, but he would wrap his arms around me and say, "It's all right, sweetness, Papa's right here," and I felt safe again.

I still can't bear to think of anyone hurting Papa like that, and I certainly can't imagine why they would ever do it. Papa is always so kind. I don't think I want to know how he got so many scars... or what his back might look like. It makes my stomach hurt.

But there is one thing I do wish I knew — whatever happened to his arms, was anyone there to comfort him after? Papa has always been there to comfort me whenever I'm hurt. Once I was climbing a tree in the Bois de Bolougne and fell and scraped my knee, and he fussed over me as if I had broken bones. Then there was that winter when I caught such a bad case of the flu. I can't remember much of it, because of the fever, but I do know that Papa seemed to be there at my bedside every time I opened my eyes. He wiped my sweaty body down with cold cloths and spoon-fed me soup until I was strong enough to do it myself.

Now that I think of it, anything I've ever needed, Papa has given me – except the truth, except answers to my questions.

I hope

He's calling me

::

April 29, 1829

I nearly jumped out of my skin when Papa called my name just as I was writing those words about him. It was like he knew what I was doing. But he didn't, of course. He said he concerned because I've been spending so much time in my room lately, and he wanted to know if anything was wrong. I stammered some excuse about how I was writing a story in the journal he gave me. It sounded made-up even to me, but Papa seemed satisfied and hasn't asked me any more questions. Still, I put this journal away for a few days, and yesterday after school, Papa and I went for a long walk by the Seine. Paris is so perfectly lovely at this time of year, with flowers blooming and birds singing everywhere. I think that's why Papa chose the springtime when he made up my birthday: it's the prettiest time of year.

It would be easy for him to read my journal during the day, while I was at school, but I don't believe he would read it without my permission.

I don't want to make him suspicious. Above all, I don't want him to know about what I'm really writing in this journal. Yet at the same time, I feel a bit guilty for not telling him. I'm not very good at keeping secrets — not like Papa, who keeps so much of his life a secret from me.